


This Crown of Bone and Flesh

by Sijglind



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bloodplay, Boy King of Hell Sam, Demon Dean Winchester, I guess????, M/M, Mostly Dean wanting Sam to drink his blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-08
Updated: 2014-06-08
Packaged: 2018-02-03 21:57:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1757999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sijglind/pseuds/Sijglind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"C’mon, Sammy." A deep inhale, nostrils flaring, followed by a softer smile. "I know you liked it, how it felt. Back then, demons were only bugs to you, you just had to raise your foot and squash them beneath.</p>
<p>"You can have that again. All this <em>power</em>.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Crown of Bone and Flesh

Sam thinks it should look different. It really should. There should be a trace, a tell, _something_ to show the corruption within. It should be black. It should be coagulated, it should be like molasses oozing from Dean’s veins, black, hot tar, smelling of rotten eggs and plague. Death and decay and hell.

It shouldn’t be rethotcrimson, shouldn’t smell metallic, drip drip dripping to the floor. It shouldn’t look so alive, so fresh, so—

_delicious_.

His tongue flicks out to lick his dry lips, chasing a phantom taste, a memory of days long gone, a memory of warm, red ambrosia, taste buds singing when it hits his tongue—

Dean (no, not Dean, but yes, Dean) smirks, and his eyes are the color that his blood isn’t. Raises his arm, shows Sam the cut, bright red against the pale flesh of the underside of his forearm.

"I know you want it, Sammy," he says, purrs, with an edge to it, predatory. His knuckles touch the invisible barrier of the Devil’s trap in a caress. Sam swallows. Lump in his throat, dry and scratchy, won’t let the words through—

_this isn’t you, Dean, I know you don’t want this, please, Dean, don’t do this, please, I need you, please, stop, I don’t want this, I know you, you don’t want this either, Dean, please, please, please_

"C’mon, Sammy." A deep inhale, nostrils flaring, followed by a softer smile. "I know you liked it, how it felt. Back then, demons were only bugs to you, you just had to raise your foot and squash them beneath.

"You can have that again. All this _power_.”

Hazel eyes flicking from crimson to black and back.

Power. Power, yes, running through him like an electric current, setting his nerves on fire, mingling with pleasure, felt so good, everything was possible, snap of his fingers and they’d be gone, empty vessels, screams of agony.

He had saved lives back then, no more stabbing vessels, innocents—so _easy_.

Dean takes a step towards him, presses up against the barrier, crimson running down his forearm to his elbow, the Mark glowing next to the cut, pulsating with a foreign, vile, sinister heartbeat.

"I know you miss it, Sammy, know you do," sounds like an obscene groan falling from his lips, slick with spit. Hips jerking, bulge in his pants, pressing against the barrier, as if he’s trying to rub up against Sam, standing only a few steps away.

"All you gotta do is let me out, baby boy," he says, black retreating from his eyes, back to his pupils, blown now with desire. "We can make them bow before you, you know. _All of them_.”

Unknown force pulling him forwards, closer to the Devil’s Trap, toes of his shoes almost touching the dark paint. Sharp smirk splitting his brother’s face, a whisper, deep and dark, rumbling, making Sam’s hair stand on end, “c’mon, I know you want to.”

He doesn’t feel the pain in his knees when he drops to the hard concrete floor. His hands are shaking when he flicks open his pocket knife, sets the blade to the paint.

"That’s it, baby boy," a sigh from above while the paint is scratched away, black flakes clinging to steel. He sees Dean shudder when the barrier drops, although he doesn’t feel it himself. His thoughts are jumbled, this is a bad idea, this is a good idea, this is his doom, this is his salvation.

Doesn’t matter, because Dean’s hand is cradling the back of his head. He tries to scramble to his feet, heart beating too fast against the inside of his ribcage, but Dean clucks his tongue, shushes him, hand carding through the tangles of Sam’s hair, tilting his head back, scalp tingling, coaxing a groan from his lips.

The smell—overpowering, sweet and metallic—makes his mouth water, and all he sees is the redredred when Dean pulls him in, pushes Sam’s cheek against his groin, his cock hot and hard through the layer of denim.

"Shh," Dean says, again, leans in a bit over Sam, bringing his bloody arm closer to Sam’s mouth. Sam’s lips part, open tongue pushing out to catch a drop of blood, nothing can be wasted—

Dean’s skin is hot and his blood is hotter, but Sam barely registers it when his lips latch onto Dean’s arm, tongue flicking out to catch every last drop of redhotcrimson. Dean’s hips jerk and Sam moans, both of them making greedy, needy noises, warped harmony of pleasure and desire. Can feel the blood on his tongue, sweet and breathtaking, wonderful, flooding his senses, running down his throat, burning, setting him alight, nerves prickling, a storm beneath his skin, fireworks before his eyes, rushing in his ears, and sweet, sweet release.

"That’s it," Dean groans, fingers flexing in Sam’s hair, and Sam nods, rubbing his cheek against Dean’s cock, denim rasping against his skin.

"That’s it, baby boy. Let me make you King."


End file.
